


Revelation 2:25

by Lurlur



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Anal Fisting, BDSM, Crowley Cries During Sex (Good Omens), Crowley gets a bit snakey, Dom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Fisting, M/M, Orgasm Denial, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Public Blow Jobs, Rimming, Safe Word Use, Sub Crowley (Good Omens), Teasing, rated E for emotional noodles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-02-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:01:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22897648
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lurlur/pseuds/Lurlur
Summary: But that which ye have already hold fast till I come.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 45
Kudos: 284
Collections: MFU Palentine's Day Exchange, Top Aziraphale Recs





	Revelation 2:25

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brynncognito](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brynncognito/gifts).



> Brynn, buddy, chum! I hope you enjoy this serving of sheer porn!

In retrospect, Crowley can see exactly where he went wrong. In fact, even as the words are leaving his mouth, he is studiously ignoring all the little red flags and sirens that signify an exceptionally bad idea. But Aziraphale has that smug, self-satisfied little smirk on his face and Crowley simply can’t resist taking the bait.

“Angel, really.” Crowley rolls his eyes at the very suggestion. “There’s no way you could make me beg. You’d cave long before I did.”

Aziraphale raises an eyebrow and purses his lips in a maddeningly disbelieving way. It’s as if he’s forgotten every time he’s tried and failed to resist the temptation of pleasure, Crowley thinks. Aziraphale adores giving himself what he wants- be that a good book, marshmallows in his cocoa, or an intense orgasm whilst buried in the heat of Crowley. Surely, long before Crowley would be begging for release, Aziraphale would want to treat himself to the singular sensation of fucking Crowley senseless.

This is the argument of which Crowley has convinced himself as he returns Aziraphale’s smirk with something appropriately cocky. He knows that he should be unnerved by the steady way that Aziraphale steeples his fingers and rests his elbows on the table, his coffee cup sitting forgotten and framed by his arms, but the draw of mischief and competition is stronger than any sense of self-preservation Crowley might have once had.

“Is this a game you wish to play?” Aziraphale asks, almost keeping the humour from his voice.

Crowley doubles down, sprawling back in his chair and spreading his legs wide enough to knock Azirahale’s thigh with one of his knees. He looks over the frames of his sunglasses with practised cool.

“Why not? Although it hardly seems like a fair match.” Crowley teases.

Aziraphale’s gaze darkens in a way that ties knots in Crowley’s stomach; he’s seen this look before and something wonderful always follows it. Crowley’s mouth suddenly feels too dry, his tongue too thick, his trousers too tight.

“Fairness aside, I should like to explore this idea with you, my love.” Aziraphale drops one hand to reach across the table and entwine his fingers with Crowley’s, resting his chin in the palm of his other hand and looking far too pleased with himself. “Say the word and it stops, you know the usual rules. How shall we define this particular challenge?”

Crowley swallows hard, suddenly aware that he’s out of his depth and barely treading water in this conversation. Although backing down has never seemed like less of an option- he refuses to lose before the game has even begun. Aziraphale must take his silence for uncertainty because he approaches the subject from a different angle.

“Am I to make you beg me to fuck you? Or should you be denied orgasms completely until you beg for them?” Aziraphale speaks as if he were discussing the quality of the wine they’d shared, casual and unaffected.

Crowley’s face is warm, he knows it must be glowing pink in response to Aziraphale’s forthright questioning. The topic had only been about begging for sex, but Aziraphale has managed to land on the precise element that Crowley’s thoughts were meandering around.

“The-  _ Satan’s balls, angel _ \- the second one.” The cockiness is gone out of him now, Crowley knows that he’s going to lose and enjoy every second of torment that takes him to his glorious defeat.

Aziraphale beams and squeezes Crowley’s hand in a manner that manages to both warm his heart and chill his bones. It’s not  _ dread, _ exactly, that he feels in this instant. It’s some sort of delicious and confusing combination of love, lust, surrender, anticipation, and fear of the unknown. He trusts that Aziraphale will take care with him, but already he’s getting aroused and butting up against the frustration of knowing there will be no release.

"Splendid," Aziraphale says too cheerfully, "I think I'm going to enjoy this." He further proves his point with a delighted little wiggle.

Crowley is helpless to watch as Aziraphale smiles and winks at him, so naturally adorable that Crowley wants to jump him there and then. He's not off to a strong start.

In recent months, Crowley and Aziraphale have moved in together in all but name. Every morning, Crowley drives them from Mayfair to Soho and every evening he drives them back again. Sometimes Aziraphale opens the shop, sometimes he doesn’t. They take in exhibitions, shows, and the occasional banger race, as and when the mood takes them. They also fuck like rabbits whenever  _ that _ mood strikes. All in all, retirement is suiting them just fine. 

This living arrangement does mean that Aziraphale has unfettered access to Crowley at all times of the day or night. This is a fact that Crowley does not consider when he initially agrees to the game. Very quickly, he learns that he has little chance of reprieve from Aziraphale's determined attention.

It starts slowly- Aziraphale is so casually gentle in all his touches and kisses that Crowley thinks he must have forgotten the game. A few days without sexual activity, whilst uncommon, is not unheard of and Crowley isn’t going to risk initiating anything only to have Aziraphale declare himself the winner so early. 

He’s sprawled across the sofa, playing some mindless game on his phone when Aziraphale surprises him with a kiss to the back of his neck. The subtle touch of tongue to his sensitive skin grabs his attention immediately; Crowley twists around to find Aziraphale’s mouth and claim it with his own. The reward is instant, Aziraphale draws Crowley up to his knees and kisses him soundly with the arm of the sofa between them. Crowley can’t help but smile into the kiss as Aziraphale’s hands wander across his back, bringing their bodies closer together and expressing his passion.

Crowley manages to navigate himself over the arm of the sofa, climbing with spider-like legs until he’s sitting upon it with Aziraphale snug between his thighs and kissing along his throat. He’s growing hard in his trousers, beginning to strain against the constricting fabric. Finding Aziraphale’s lips again, Crowley rocks his hips forward to grind his arousal against Aziraphale’s.

To his utter dismay, Crowley finds Aziraphale completely soft, apparently unaffected by their heated kisses. To add insult to injury, Aziraphale pulls away, smiles like a bastard and pats Crowley on the cheek.

“I thought we might go to the Natural History Museum today? The Wildlife Photographer of the Year exhibition has opened and I always enjoy that.” Aziraphale says as if he isn’t kiss-rumpled and pink in the cheeks.

Crowley’s mouth opens and closes a few times, warming up before he can give voice to his response.

“If- If that’s what you want to do, sure,” Crowley says eventually, struggling to get his train of thought onto these new tracks.

“Splendid! I’ll fetch my coat.” With that, Aziraphale steps away briskly and makes for the door.

Crowley is left feeling bereft and cheated. Above all, he is left with no doubt about whether Aziraphale remembers their conversation and,  _ bless it all _ , that shouldn’t thrill him as much as it does.

With a tantalising mix of dread and excitement roiling in his belly, Crowley trails after Aziraphale like the lovesick puppy he’s always been.

It’s 2 pm on a Tuesday, so Crowley has no way of knowing if the gallery is deserted due to angelic influence or coincidence. He could always ask Aziraphale, he supposes, but where would be the fun in that?

The gallery is dimly lit with black walls and floor, and the photographs are illuminated with spotlights that only serve to emphasise the surrounding shadows. Even an imagination half as wild as Crowley’s would find it difficult not to picture disappearing into a darkened corner to pass a few minutes with his lover.

Outwardly, Crowley is casting a critical eye over an image of a fox cub surrounded by dew-heavy grass when Aziraphale presses himself against Crowley’s back. His breath is hot on the back of Crowley’s neck as his hands slide over Crowley’s hips and lower.

“Beautiful photograph, isn’t it?” Aziraphale says as his fingertips brush against Crowley’s too-interested cock through the fabric of his trousers.

Crowley drops his head back onto Aziraphale’s shoulder and lets out a long breath. The tip of Aziraphale’s tongue traces along Crowley’s ear; it’s little more than a tickle but Crowley has to fight back a moan regardless. 

“Bit trite, if you ask me,” Crowley mutters, playing up his cynicism.

Aziraphale cocks his head as if to take in the photograph again, reassessing it.

“Hmm, perhaps. Still beautiful.” His hands move back to Crowley’s hips, holding him firmly.

Gently, but insistent, Aziraphale steers Crowley towards another photograph whilst keeping his back pressed against Aziraphale’s chest. It’s a solid and steady warmth that Crowley can focus on, grounding and familiar.

“This photograph claims to contain eight leopards but, for the life of me, I can only spot six of the beasts. How about you?” Aziraphale manages to sound both perfectly innocent and utterly filthy in his question, whispering it directly into Crowley’s ear, as he does.

Crowley tries, oh he really tries to focus on the photograph and count the blasted leopards but Aziraphale is nibbling on his neck and sucking soft kisses along his collarbone. With a trembling hand, Crowley pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and rubs over his eyes. 

_ Leopards, right, count the leopards and ignore Aziraphale. Easy. _

It is most decidedly not easy. Aziraphale’s hands are wandering south again, stroking along the hard length of Crowley’s cock where it strains against his clothing. Crowley is beginning to suspect that Aziraphale has removed two leopards from the image when he feels his zipper being lowered and deft fingers working into his underwear.

“Angel,” he breathes, leaning back into Aziraphale as his legs weaken. “What are you doing to me?”

“Did you find the one in the tree? He’s a sneaky one.” Aziraphale ignores Crowley’s question and takes hold of his cock. “Can you be quiet and sneaky for me, love?”

Shivering with want, Crowley nods vigorously and squeezes his eyes shut, surrendering himself to the curl of Aziraphale’s fingers around his shaft. His hands reach back to brace on Aziraphale’s waist, an attempt to hold himself up as he’s taken apart ever so slowly. There shouldn’t be room for Aziraphale to move his hand like this, not inside Crowley’s trousers, but reality is malleable around them, conforming to their desires like a good, thick custard moves around the solid mass of treacle pudding.

“Faster, please angel,” Crowley whispers between biting his bottom lip and trying to rock into Aziraphale’s hand.

The pace he’s setting is a slow torture, nowhere near enough to get Crowley where he wants to be, just enough to keep him rock hard and whimpering with need. With a tut of disappointment, Aziraphale withdraws his hand and closes Crowley’s fly. 

“I asked you to be quiet for me, Crowley. Now you’ve let me down.” He sounds wounded and that makes it worse.

It’s the game, of course it’s the game, but Crowley failed him and now he’s sad and Crowley did that to him. In a rush of apologies and placating kisses, Crowley spins to face Aziraphale and deliver his contrition. Only once they’re face to face does Aziraphale press his hips forward to illustrate his own urgent arousal.

“I suppose you could make it up to me.” Aziraphale offers and Crowley grabs at the opportunity.

“Yes, angel, anything. What can I do?” Crowley is too eager, he can hear it in his own voice.

Planting a hand in the centre of Crowley’s chest, Aziraphale urges him backwards until he hits a wall and Aziraphale has him crowded into an inky-dark corner.

“Knees.”

It’s not a suggestion or a request, Crowley knows better than that by now. Aziraphale will not accept being messed about when he’s in this mood and,  _ fuck _ , if Crowley doesn’t love having control taken from him. The way it stills the chatter in his busy head is a gift that only Aziraphale can give. Crowley folds his legs under him like collapsing scaffolding and kneels at Aziraphale’s feet, looking up for his next instruction.

His mouth waters as Aziraphale opens his trousers and frees his own cock, anticipating the weight of it on his lip, the diffusion of salt across his tongue, the burn of his throat. Crowley opens his mouth to accept his benediction, the flesh of his saviour. 

Above him, Aziraphale’s face is in shadow, unknowable but beloved all the same. A thumb hooks over Crowley’s bottom teeth and fingers curl under his chin, holding him fast as he is fed Aziraphale’s cock. He presses his tongue upwards, massaging the head until he’s allowed to suck. The thumb draws him closer as a hissed breath leaves Aziraphale’s lips.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” Aziraphale’s free hand caresses Crowley’s cheek, tucking a tuft of hair behind his ear.

Crowley tries, he  _ really _ tries not to preen at the praise but from this vantage point Aziraphale is his whole world. He leans into the hand at his cheek as much as he can with a mouth full of cock. 

When Aziraphale’s hands drop from Crowley’s face, Crowley thinks he can feel a hint of reluctance there, something that makes Aziraphale want to linger on the moment. It warms him as he is allowed to focus on his task, at last, thinking only of the taste, feel, scent, sound of Aziraphale as he sucks him deep into his throat and swallows convulsively around the head of Aziraphale’s cock.

He makes beautiful noises, bucking into Crowley’s mouth until breathing is no longer a luxury that Crowley is afforded. It’s fine, it really is, Crowley doesn’t need it at all, not like he needs Aziraphale. He’s buried to the root in Crowley’s mouth and still rutting, gasping as Crowley’s throat squeezes around him. Aziraphale’s hands, braced on the black wall, are the only thing keeping him from slamming Crowley’s head into the plaster.

_ Use me. Use me. Use me.  _ Crowley’s thoughts become a monotony, a plea and a rhythm all for Aziraphale’s pleasure. His earlier frustration is completely forgotten, serving Aziraphale is the only thing he cares about as his mouth and throat are fucked thoroughly. 

One hand drops into his hair, knocking the sunglasses off his head, tightening into a fist at his crown and tugging his head in time with Aziraphale’s increasingly violent thrusts. It’s so filthy and demeaning, taking all control from Crowley as if he can’t be trusted to bring Aziraphale off on his own. Unbidden, he moans around the cock invading his throat, a wanton, hungry noise that throws Aziraphale off his rhythm and has him shuddering through his release. The sour-salt of him stings Crowley’s raw throat, chokes him as Aziraphale withdraws, still spilling across Crowley’s eager tongue.

The last fat drops splatter onto Crowley’s chin, cooling quickly. He swallows the load in his mouth before sending his tongue out, seeking the last of it. Aziraphale doesn’t let go of Crowley’s hair, keeping him on his knees as Aziraphale rights his clothing and regains his composure.

The grip at his crown is more grounding, more real than the floor beneath his knees. Crowley imagines himself as a marionette, under Aziraphale’s control and swaying on his strings. He’s surprised that he doesn’t fall to the floor in a pile when Aziraphale finally releases him.

“Good boy,” Aziraphale runs his fingers through Crowley’s mussed hair before offering his hand to help him to his feet. “Now, how many leopards did you find?”

Some hours later, after Crowley has driven them back to Mayfair whilst doing his damnedest to pretend that Aziraphale’s hand isn’t stroking him through his jeans, Crowley lets them into the flat. He drops his keys and sunglasses onto the side table. Aziraphale shrugs off his coat and hangs it up ever so carefully. Crowley’s doing the same, albeit with considerably less care, when he becomes aware of the way that Aziraphale is looking at him. It’s as if something’s wrong and Aziraphale is trying to put his finger on it.

Crowley looks down at himself, twisting to check other angles, worried that he’s been wandering around London all afternoon with angelic semen smeared down his shirt. With a little gasp, Aziraphale makes a show of having discovered the answer. His face brightens several degrees and Crowley is not comforted by the smile he’s wearing.

“I worked out what was bothering me!” Aziraphale beams, moving to block the hallway and trapping Crowley between him and the front door.

“Oh, really?” Crowley lifts an eyebrow.

“You’re wearing far too many clothes, dear. You should take them all off.”

The coolness evaporates in an instant as Crowley’s knees threaten to buckle beneath him. He slaps a palm against the wall to steady himself and fixes Aziraphale with a baleful glare. 

“You shan’t intimidate me into showing mercy, Crowley. There’s only one way out of this for you.” Aziraphale says, altogether too cheerfully, stepping closer until Crowley backs into the door.

Crowley bristles, looking around the hallway for some kind of distraction while Aziraphale waits, his hands folded across his stomach and an expectant expression on his face. Still feeling out of sorts from the scene Aziraphale had made at the museum, as well as their heated drive home, Crowley whines his distress.

“Come on, Crowley,” Aziraphale takes a mocking tone and tugs on one end of Crowley’s silver scarf, pulling the knot loose and sliding it slowly from around Crowley’s neck. “Don’t you want to be good for me? I thought you were being my good boy?”

Just as it always does, taking praise from Aziraphale sends electric zaps of anticipation through Crowley’s body. His pride wants him to dig his heels in, be stubborn and difficult, until Aziraphale has no choice but to give in. Crowley thinks he could go a hundred years or more without orgasm if it was purely a matter of pride.

Luckily, this game isn’t a matter of pride at all, and Crowley knows it. It’s submission and trust and finding limits and being pushed. Crowley  _ wants _ Aziraphale to take this control, he wants to be pushed further than he would push himself, he needs to be told that he is good and that Aziraphale is pleased with him, and that is why Crowley begins to strip off his clothes.

Once he’s fully nude, clothes in a pile beneath the coat rack, Aziraphale pins him to the door by his wrists and kisses him soundly. Kisses him until his lips are pink and his breath is ragged. Kisses him until he’s hard and aching, rutting his hips and leaving a wet spot on Aziraphale’s trousers. He’ll banish the mark without a thought later, because of course he will.

Aziraphale looks unruffled as he pulls away, smiling gently and leading Crowley by the hand, taking him deeper into the flat. Crowley does the only thing he can and follows wordlessly, the memory of Aziraphale’s tongue fresh in his mouth.

The furnishings of the flat have changed a little, reflecting their new living arrangement. There’s a comfortable sofa stacked with pillows, a little bookshelf for Aziraphale to keep his current reading material on, an armchair that’s just big enough for two in very close quarters, softer and more homely things than Crowley had possessed before. It’s to the armchair that Aziraphale leads Crowley now, picking up a pillow from the sofa as they pass.

Aziraphale drops the pillow on the floor beside the armchair, makes eye contact with Crowley and nods towards it before sinking into the armchair with a sigh.

“Come on, angel.” Crowley protests, throwing his head back. “The floor? Really?”

“I thought you were going to behave for me?” Aziraphale says by way of an answer.

Crowley looks at the pillow, back at Aziraphale’s calmly expectant face, and shows his teeth in a humourless grin as he sinks to the floor.

“Such a good pet.” Aziraphale croons as he strokes Crowley’s hair as a reward.

He knows exactly how to get Crowley in the most receptive headspace: the words, tones, and touches that bring out Crowley’s most submissive tendencies. Already, Crowley can feel the fight slipping out of him as gentle fingers comb through his hair and caress the back of his neck. He kneels on the pillow, resting his cheek against Aziraphale’s knee and lets his eyes close.

His cock is hot and urgent, desperate for attention where it juts out above his thighs. Ignoring it, relaxing into Aziraphale’s touch, and surrendering his control is easier than he’d ever suspected it might be.

“I could do with a book, dear,” Aziraphale says after some minutes. “Be a lamb and fetch me over the Austen, would you?”

Loathe to leave Aziraphale’s side and forfeit the steady petting of his hair, Crowley raises a hand to summon the book. Aziraphale’s fingers fasten around his wrist in a flash and tighten until the bones ache.

“Crawl for it. Let me see you.” There’s no hint of a request in Aziraphale’s words.

The affection has already been lost so Crowley can bear leaving his spot beside Aziraphale. With a gentle tug, Crowley gets his wrist free and lowers his hands to the floor. The smooth concrete is cool under his palms until he reaches the rug that Aziraphale had insisted upon laying in the centre of the room. He’s grateful for it now as he sinks into the soft pile. With Aziraphale behind him, Crowley couldn’t be more exposed than he is at this moment.

Once he retrieves the book from the bookcase, Crowley has a small crisis over how to carry it back. He needs all his limbs for a proper crawl, and Aziraphale would never forgive him for biting one of his beloved books. Weakly, Crowley flounders and begins to panic. He’s stupid for not thinking ahead, for not knowing what Aziraphale wants from him. He can’t do anything right, even something as simple as fetching a book. He’s a fuck-up in everything he tries.

Sitting back on his haunches with the book in one hand and his back to Aziraphale, Crowley screws his eyes shut. He wants to quiet the negative voices, to ignore all the echoes of Hell telling him what a failure he is, but they’re only getting louder.

“Crowley, love, what’s wrong?” Aziraphale sounds concerned from across the room.

Shaking his head, Crowley makes a noncommittal noise in his throat. He hears Aziraphale push himself up from the armchair and the soft fall of his feet on the rug. A hand is in his hair again, stroking and gently urging him to look up.

“I messed up,” he says when he meets Aziraphale’s eyes. “I couldn’t carry it and I didn’t know what to do.”

It hurts to be this vulnerable; it hurts like swallowing a star, burning and sharp in his chest. Admitting his failure in such a simple task is so difficult, but Aziraphale is kind and he cups Crowley’s cheek as he takes the book from his hands, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he bends close.

“You did very well. I’m not disappointed. Come now, by me.” Aziraphale invites no argument with his tone, calling Crowley to heel for the few steps back to the armchair.

It eases the knot of anxiety that was building, threatening to take over, eases and soothes it into a background hum by the time that Crowley is settled back on his pillow, leaning against Aziraphale’s leg.

It’s peaceful like this for a while, Aziraphale reading and stroking Crowley’s hair, only pausing to turn a page. The only sound is their breathing, the whispery scratch of neat nails against Crowley’s scalp and the sigh of moving paper. Presently, Aziraphale chuckles at some passage or other and Crowley startles out of his daze.

“Come up here and sit in my lap, Crowley. I want to read this passage to you.” Aziraphale pats his lap as he speaks, encouraging Crowley to climb up.

He manhandles Crowley into position, adjusting spindly limbs as absently as one might the fall of a coat, until Crowley is sitting sideways across the chair, his feet dangling over one armrest and his back pressed against the other. He accepts a kiss from Aziraphale and snuggles into him, trying to distract himself from how arousing he found the manhandling.

As he begins to read, Aziraphale drops one hand from the book to Crowley’s thigh. With featherlight touches, he skims up the smooth skin until his fingertips brush against Crowley’s balls. Despite himself, Crowley lets out a little squeak of surprise.

“Yes, it’s a very good book. Do try not to interrupt though, dearest.” Aziraphale doesn’t look away from the page as he teases Crowley, deliberately misinterpreting his reaction.

He continues to read aloud and Crowley can acknowledge that it’s a funny piece. Austen’s wit has been a favourite of his for rather a while. But it’s difficult to concentrate on the biting satire with Aziraphale’s fingers curling around his cock once more.

He squirms into the touch, lifting his hips just a fraction of an inch, already desperate for the attention that Aziraphale is offering. His teeth and lips hold back a litany of whimpers and moans as Aziraphale’s hand starts to move, stroking up and down his still-hardening length. His control slips as Aziraphale’s pace quickens, his ragged breaths becoming gasps and his edge looming.

“Aziraphale, I’m gonna-” Crowley warns, out of habit.

“No, you aren’t.” Aziraphale whips his hand away and resumes reading.

Crowley pants and clutches at Aziraphale’s waistcoat, clinging to him as the wave crest of his pleasure recedes, never having peaked. Aziraphale seems not to notice, continuing in his performance of  _ Emma  _ although Crowley no longer believes that it is for his benefit.

As soon as Crowley’s breathing has returned to normal, Aziraphale’s hand finds its way back to his cock, bringing him back the brink with ruthless efficiency. This time, Crowley keeps his lips pressed tightly together, refusing to betray his impending release. Moments before he breaks, his back arching and jaw tight, Aziraphale pulls away again to leave Crowley whining and writhing.

“Bastard.” Crowley spits.

“Undoubtedly,” Aziraphale says without looking up from the book. “Would you have me any other way?”

Crowley bares his teeth and hisses without venom.

“No, I love you just as you are,” he admits, at last.

Aziraphale smiles, a wide and genuine grin that is only for Crowley.

“Shall I continue?”

Crowley can’t tell if he means the reading or the teasing, but his answer is the same in either case.

“Yes, please.”

So, Aziraphale continues. 

Some hours later, when Crowley has been brought to the brink of orgasm over a dozen times, each more frustratingly tense than the last, Aziraphale closes his book and drops it onto the side table beside him. Still sitting in his lap, Crowley is keenly aware of Aziraphale’s arousal, his erection pressing upwards against Crowley’s buttocks. Aziraphale swipes his thumb over the head of Crowley’s cock, gathering up the drop of pre-come to offer it to Crowley.

Eagerly, Crowley takes Aziraphale’s thumb into his mouth, licking away the taste of himself and suckling on it with his eyes fixed on Aziraphale’s face.

“You are such a pretty thing,  _ my  _ pretty thing, aren’t you?” Aziraphale asks as he slowly withdraws his thumb. Even to Crowley’s ears, the wet pop of his lips is obscene. “I can do whatever I like with my pretty toy, can’t I?”

Crowley nods, his tongue too stupid to form words. Aziraphale scoops him up and stands, not appearing to even notice the extra weight. He turns and lowers Crowley to the chair, again posing him just so. Crowley is put on his knees with his forearms braced over the back of the chair. His knees are spread as wide as the chair allows, pressing into the armrests and as close to the edge of the seat as he can be without slipping off.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale says from behind him, “Delicious.”

Crowley remembers this tone from a hundred dinners, a thousand snacks, a million moments and more. Aziraphale’s hunger is a tangible, insatiable thing between them, a need that radiates like heat. Crowley shivers in response and earns a calming hand at the base of his spine.

“Remember, my love, you only need say the word.” Aziraphale’s voice is low and thick.

“I know, angel, I know.” Crowley lifts his head away from his arms to respond.

His head is barely back in the cradle of his arms when Aziraphale’s fingers trace down from his spine to the cleft of his arse. His tortured cock twitches with misplaced interest and his back curves to present himself more fully for Aziraphale’s attention.

The fingers trail down further, stroking his balls until they tighten against his body before caressing the underside of his cock. Crowley breathes deep, willing himself to stay still, knowing that Aziraphale likes these delicate preludes before shocking him with something sudden. He relaxes as best he can, anticipating the plunge of a slick finger or a hot mouth on his balls.

As ever, Aziraphale manages to surprise him, wringing a choked groan from his throat as Aziraphale presses a wet and sucking kiss to Crowley’s hole.

He tries to burrow into his arms, hiding his face and muffling his cries as Aziraphale licks into him with single-minded determination. Aziraphale’s hands are on him, touching his thighs, his back, his cock, flitting about like alighting birds in search of a place to rest. When they eventually settle on his hips, Crowley whimpers, Aziraphale’s fingers dig into his flesh, holding him steady as Aziraphale’s tongue laps at him, firmly working into his ass and opening him.

It’s so intimate and indecent, this devouring hunger with which Aziraphale consumes Crowley, it washes Crowley’s mind clean of any thought. He is pure sensation, hips to be gripped, skin to be lapped, a hole to be plundered.

He must be whining because Aziraphale breaks away and runs his hands up and down Crowley’s thighs.

“Hush, love. You’ll get what you need.” Aziraphale soothes, kissing across Crowley's buttocks in a way that is far too affectionate.

Crowley bites back another whine, muffling himself with his hands, as Aziraphale presses a finger into him.

“Good boy, Crowley, you’re so good for me. Let me give you what you need, my sweet pet.” Aziraphale fucks Crowley on his finger as he heaps praise on him.

On reflex, Crowley bucks his hips backwards, seeking more, encouraging Aziraphale to take more from him. Aziraphale obliges with a second finger, thrusting harder into him by the moment. 

“Yes, that’s it. Open up for me, love.” Aziraphale lays his upper body against Crowley’s back and kisses him sweetly. 

The heat in Crowley’s face is his only indication that his cock isn’t, in fact, filled with all the blood in his body. He blushes fiercely at this unwarranted praise, at Aziraphale speaking so frankly. A third finger is added and the stretch of Crowley’s hole begins to register just the slightest amount of discomfort, a mild sharpness that keeps him focused on Aziraphale’s invasion of his body. 

“Can you take more for me, pet?” Aziraphale asks as he fucks Crowley to the knuckles.

“Fuck, Aziraphale. Yes, yes, please.” Crowley already knows that he’s not above begging for what he wants.

Aziraphale withdraws his hand, leaving Crowley gasping and empty. The snap of a lube bottle behind him makes something hot and needy curl tight in Crowley’s stomach. When Aziraphale’s fingers push into him again, they’re slippery with more than spit. Crowley can feel all four fingers slide in, opening him wider and making him hiss with the burn of it. Aziraphale whispers encouragement and praise that Crowley catches the flavour of, if not the content. His mind is deliciously blank, feeling only the places where Aziraphale’s hands touch.

“More, more, please. Angel, please more.” Crowley is babbling, desperate and whining in his need.

“Are you sure, love?” Aziraphale’s voice comes low and close, the heat of his body radiating against Crowley.

“Yes, fuck, Please. Want you all.”

Tears are running down his cheeks and wetting his arms, so deep is his need to be possessed and filled by Aziraphale. There’s a kiss on his shoulder before Aziraphale withdraws his fingers once more. Crowley knows this isn’t the end, knows he will be filled again soon enough, yet still, he feels utterly deprived for these few moments.

Aziraphale is always slow and methodical in his stretching open of Crowley, careful and caring no matter how desperate, demanding, or whiny he might get. Greedy, Crowley thinks, greedy is what he is when it comes to Aziraphale.

“Ready, love?” Aziraphale checks, only pressing his carefully folded fingertips into Crowley when he receives the confirmation. “You look so beautiful, taking this for me. You are scrumptious, Crowley. Here comes the hard part.” 

Crowley keens as Aziraphale’s knuckles stretch him wide open, his hand reaching back to grip Aziraphale’s upper arm just to have another point of connection. The sweet burn of discomfort eases as Aziraphale sinks further in, buried in Crowley to the wrist. He wriggles his fingers, just the smallest amount, and Crowley sees stars.

“The sight of you like this, oh, my love, it does  _ such  _ things to me. You should see yourself with my eyes.” Aziraphale’s praise is effusive and soft, hitting Crowley right where he needs it.

A firm hand clamps on to Crowley’s hip as Aziraphale begins to draw his hand out only to push back in, fucking Crowley rather gently with his whole fist.

“Angel, angel, please.” Crowley whimpers, his rock-hard cock dribbling pre-come onto the chair beneath him with each slow thrust.

“What is it, my darling? What do you need?” Aziraphale asks with so much softness and love in his voice that Crowley sobs.

“Angel, Aziraphale, love,” Crowley isn’t asking for anything, he can’t think in terms of requests or needs when he’s so full of Aziraphale.

“You’re not going to disappoint me, are you?” Aziraphale phrases it as a question but they both know it’s anything but. “You won’t come from this, will you.”

Crowley’s fingers tear into the upholstery of the chair as he trembles with his barely controlled desire. Spontaneous scales erupt down the valley of his spine as his discipline slips and his true form gains a foothold.

“No angel, I won’t, I won’t.” And he means it.

“I’m going to have you now, I think.”

Aziraphale is so casual about it, flexing his fingers one last time before withdrawing his hand from within Crowley, that Crowley could almost convince himself that this whole day has had no effect on Aziraphale at all. There’s only the slightest catch in his voice, the tiniest uptick in his pulse, to give away any sign that he’s as close to coming apart as Crowley is.

Crowley can hear Aziraphale’s button fly opening and the muted rustle of fabric that preempts the scent of Aziraphale’s arousal reaching Crowley’s forked tongue.  _ Oh _ , but he is aroused and more than a little. Crowley can taste it on the air just before Aziraphale sinks into him, claiming him with the entire length of his cock in one slick stroke.

Stuffing his face into the ripped stuffing of the armchair, Crowley wails and shoves his hips back to beg for more, for harder, for something ruthless. Aziraphale delivers with ease, grabbing Crowley’s hip with one iron fist and a handful of his hair with the other. His thrusts are punishingly hard, slamming Crowley’s shoulders into the back of the chair at an increasingly brutal pace. 

It’s use and little more, Aziraphale chasing his own pleasure regardless of what Crowley wants. The thought burns a delicious little flame within Crowley’s chest, the realisation that Aziraphale feels safe enough to do this, trusts him enough to take to his limit and nothing more, can give himself over without worry. Each of these thoughts is fleeting, punched out by the pounding of Aziraphale’s hips and the hunger of his grunts.

Without warning, Aziraphale slams Crowley back onto his cock and holds him as deep as he can. His hand slips from Crowley’s hair and snakes across his chest to lift him back into Aziraphale. The unmistakable shuddering groan of Aziraphale’s orgasm rumbles through them both, pushing Crowley closer to the brink of his own pleasure but keeping it just out of reach.

When Aziraphale releases him, Crowley crumples into a heap of limbs and sharp angles on the seat of the armchair, come and lube running down his thighs. 

“You messy thing, look at the state of you,” Aziraphale says, kindly enough. “Go get cleaned up.”

Crowley finds himself gently scooted off the armchair, his bare feet given time to reach the ground before he’s totally unsupported. His knees tremble with unmet desire and he fights the urge to be petulant.

He loses.

“You’re done?” Crowley can hear the pitch to his voice and winces.

“Oh yes, quite done. Thank you, that was marvellous.” Aziraphale has straightened his clothing, cleaned himself off and repaired the armchair in one quick snap and now is reclining back in his seat as if nothing had happened.

“What about-” Crowley gestures lamely to his straining erection, “You’re finished with me?”

Aziraphale blinks as if Crowley has asked him if octopuses wear shoes or something equally nonsensical.

“Shouldn’t I be, dear? Is there something more that you need?” Aziraphale smiles placidly as he answers, his hands folded in his lap. “Did I not give you enough of me?”

Crowley whimpers, still feeling every inch of Aziraphale. He takes a step backwards, trying to remember the argument he had formed on the tip of his tongue.

“Greedy beast, you’re lucky I love you.” Aziraphale dismisses him by picking up his book and turning his attention away.

The walk to the bathroom has never felt so long nor so lonely. Crowley’s thighs are wet and slippery with a mixture of come and lube, it tickles him as it trickles around the hair on his legs. He could use a miracle, just as Aziraphale had, but the intent in the instruction was clear; Crowley is to clean himself in the human way, feel the cleansing of the evidence of Aziraphale’s use of him.

He runs the shower as hot as he can bear it and, given his nature and origin, Crowley likes his water scalding and a punishing, pummelling pressure. He steps into the stream and immediately regrets every decision he’s ever made. The water pounds into his chest and floods down his body, as firm as a hand around his painfully hard cock. There’s nothing pleasurable about the sensation and he jerks away from it, lurching into the wall on reflex. Turning his back to the shower helps, the pressure over his tense shoulders is almost like a massage, until he bends forward and lets the stream hit his arse.

The sensitive, abused flesh seems to scream in protest at the treatment. Crowley’s hands claw uselessly at the glass door of the shower as he forces himself to endure the cleansing water jet. Finally, he thinks that he must be clean, that all evidence of Aziraphale’s pleasure has run down the drain, and shuts off the water. The steam-filled room bears the scent of verbena and lavender from his expensive soap; it used to calm him but now it just feels mocking. Sulking, Crowley pulls on his bathrobe and ties it tight before stalking back out to the living room.

Aziraphale hasn’t moved from his chair, still reading and so engrossed that he doesn’t even look up when Crowley enters. The pillow is still on the floor by his feet- the sight of it makes Crowley’s traitorous cock twitch in futile hope.

“I think I’m gonna take a nap, if you don’t need anything else?” Crowley leaves as little room for argument as he can.

“Oh?” Aziraphale looks up from his book as if startled. “Yes, yes, of course. Enjoy your nap.”

Crowley wants to turn on his heel with a sneer but, with Aziraphale in front of him as beautiful and soft as he’s ever been, Crowley can’t resist closing the distance between them and kissing Aziraphale goodnight. He means it to be a quick, chaste show of affection but Aziraphale sinks his hand into Crowley’s damp hair and parts his lips to deepen the kiss. Only by the barest of margins, Crowley keeps himself from folding into Aziraphale’s lap, drawing back with a dazed smile to stroke Aziraphale’s cheek.

“G’night angel,” Crowley mumbles and pads away to the sanctuary of his bed.

Sleep evades him but each movement brushes sheets and blankets across his damned erection. Crowley thinks about just banishing the thing completely, turning off that part of his brain and ignoring the whole sorry mess. But then Aziraphale would be disappointed when he finds out and Crowley can bear that even less. So, he lies awake in a tangle of frustration and doubt, casting a wall of silence around the bed to let him wallow without disturbing Aziraphale.

Perhaps this hadn’t been the best idea after all.

Crowley rolls onto his side and curls protectively around his awful, burning arousal. Tears run in silvery trails down his cheeks and splash onto his pillow with increasing frequency until he’s sobbing wordlessly and smothering his face in the damp fabric. 

This is stupid, maybe Aziraphale only ever wanted him for this, to get himself off and never care about Crowley. No, that’s wrong, he knows it’s wrong. Aziraphale loves him and this game is no different to any of the others they’ve played. If he calls it to an end, Aziraphale will stop in a heartbeat just as he always has before.

Unless this is what he’s wanted all along, and this is the time that Aziraphale won’t stop, won’t give up control once it’s been granted. Crowley argues with himself, fighting logic and panic by turns until his eyes finally run dry of tears and sleep claims him.

In his sleep, Crowley dreams of Aziraphale’s teasing hands and prim smirks, snatches of sensation and flashes of images that tease him as thoroughly as any waking interaction might. He wakes with the dark resignation of a condemned man, knowing his fate and seeing no clemency on the horizon.

The dream fades slowly, bringing Crowley gradually to awareness of the warm body curled around him, Aziraphale’s scent on his tongue, kisses along his shoulder, and a soft hand at his painful erection. He whimpers and clenches his jaw, alerting Aziraphale to his wakefulness. 

“Oh darling, I just had to join you and stroke your cock some more. I hope you’ll forgive me?” Aziraphale punctuates his words with tender kisses along Crowley’s shoulder and up his neck.

Crowley tries to lie still, to breathe through his new torment. Aziraphale’s fingers are as gentle as feather strokes but they feel like lit matches on his skin.

A strangled sound forces its way from his throat and Aziraphale’s hand is off him in an instant.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale props himself up to look at Crowley in the darkness. “Crowley, are you alright?”

Now Crowley has failed him, can’t even take a full day of teasing without breaking down, can’t give Aziraphale what he wants. And the only way that Crowley knows to console himself right now is to turn and burrow into Aziraphale’s chest, sobbing and apologising and hiding his face.

Aziraphale wraps his arms around Crowley’s shoulders and pulls the duvet up to his chin, cocooning Crowley in a warm embrace. Stroking Crowley’s back and making soothing nonsense sounds, Aziraphale manages to slowly coax Crowley out of his hysterics.

“What’s the matter, my love?” Aziraphale asks and kisses the top of Crowley’s head.

Crowley sniffles and turns his head, only now daring to look up at Aziraphale.

“Red, angel. I’m sorry, red.” His voice is barely a whisper.

“What a thing to apologise for! Oh, my sweet, darling pet. It’s OK. I’m sorry I didn’t see it before.” Aziraphale sounds sincere, like he’s the one at fault which is just beyond Crowley’s comprehension right now. “What do you need?”

Crowley can think of a million things that he wants, but there’s only one thing he needs right now.

“Tell me you love me, I need to hear it.” The asking is painful but the need is greater.

Aziraphale tucks Crowley’s head under his chin and holds him tighter, cradling his body until Crowley is finally half-way relaxed.

“Crowley, my beauty, I love you more than I ever thought possible. I love you down to the starstuff of my core; between each electron of my being there is an ocean of love just for you.” Aziraphale pulls away so Crowley can see his face before continuing. “I have loved you since I understood what it is to love and I will love you until time ceases to exist and my love for you becomes part of the fabric of reality. I love you, Crowley.”

These tears are different. They are tears of relief and love and Crowley doesn’t even flinch when Aziraphale bends his head to kiss them away.

“Love you, too, angel. Obviously.” Crowley mumbles and blushes in equal measure. “ _ Please _ can you get me off now? You win.”

“Whilst you are a delectable prize, how can it be a victory when I’ve pushed you into using your safe word?” Aziraphale says, squirming down the bed.

Crowley startles at the first rush of hot breath over his hyper-sensitive cock and before he can settle into the sensation, Aziraphale’s wet mouth sucks him in and down to the root. His fingers claw at the sheets as he struggles to keep from writhing away from Aziraphale’s attention. Within seconds, he’s close, so close, and he opens his mouth to say so just as Aziraphale slides a slick finger into Crowley’s hole and strokes his prostate. Crowley bucks and howls, spilling thick and hot into Aziraphale’s mouth for what seems like an age.

“Angel, fuck. Oh, fuck. Aziraphale.” Crowley gasps as his orgasm shakes him to his bones. “Come back here and kiss me, fuck, please, angel.”

The lightest kitten lick to the tip of his cock precedes Aziraphale emerging from under the covers and kissing Crowley’s breath away. The lingering sour taste of Crowley’s spend is a delicacy on Aziraphale’s tongue and Crowley gluts himself with it.

After, when they are lying together and idly petting whatever patch of skin happens to be under their hands, Aziraphale raises the subject again.

“We should talk about what went wrong, sweetheart.”

Crowley groans and turns his face into a pillow.

“I know,” he says, muffled as he is.

“That means you’re going to have to tell me, Crowley.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Crowley repeats before forcing himself to flop onto his back and stare at the ceiling. “It was really good to start off, I thought I could stand it. Then, I don’t know, I guess I got in my head too much, started imagining that you were detached.” Crowley sighs loudly.

Beside him, Aziraphale hums thoughtfully.

“I can see that. I should have paid more attention to your emotional needs, I’m sorry.”

“Angel, ugh, don’t say things like ‘emotional needs’ to me right now. I’ll discorporate.” Crowley huffs as he snuggles closer to Aziraphale anyway.

“You will not, you dramatic noodle.”

Aziraphale kisses the top of Crowley’s head whilst Crowley makes a spluttering assortment of objection-shaped noises. Normality is restored.


End file.
